The Devil's Love (15 page)

back. “Withers, he is my cousin. Surely even Lord Darfield wouldn’t begrudge me

a visit by my own cousin!”

“He won’t put you in harm’s way, you can count on that! Now, don’t be looking at

me like ‘at!”

Abbey frowned and examined the leather ball in her hand. She did not believe

Withers and chalked up his blustering to a seaman’s superstition. In her experience, sailors had a superstition for just about everything under the sun.

She shrugged and tossed the ball for Harry. She still owed the Black Marquis a

graceful way out if he needed it. Perhaps she would join him at supper.

Perhaps

she would cry off then, and perhaps he would be so enormously thankful, he would

allow her cousin to visit. How happy she would be to see Galen. God knew she

could use a friend just now.

Except for two cool brief encounters during the day, Abbey managed to think

little of Michael until it came time to dress for supper. Now, the prospect of

seeing him again made her oddly nervous, and she insisted Sarah help her select

an appropriate gown and arrange her hair.

While Abbey dressed, Sarah chatted endlessly about Lord Darfield. To hear the

gushing young maid tell it, he was even more a saint than Captain Carrington

could have imagined. But Abbey was wise to her new friend and her desire to see

the Darfields firmly united, and politely ignored her chatter.

She could not really concentrate, anyway. Inside, she was a jumbled mess of

confused emotions. She wanted to look appealing, but she did not want him to

notice her. She wanted him to like her, but she wanted to remain aloof and separate.

When she was finally ready, she slowly descended the winding marble staircase

and paused at the foot of the stairs. She was in no hurry to join him; more and

more this was seeming a very bad idea. She should keep her distance from him,

maintain a distinct separation, speak only when spoken to. She walked languidly

toward the drawing room, her fingers trailing carelessly over furniture, admiring the portraits that lined the walls. One portrait in particular caught her attention. It was a woman who closely resembled Michael, except that she had

light hair and a beautiful smile. The Marquis of Bitterfield had a beautiful smile, too, but he so rarely used it.

“It’s my mother,” Michael said from behind her.

Startled, Abbey jumped and whirled around. A faint smile touched his lips as she

sucked in a deep, calming breath and turned back to the portrait.

“She was beautiful,” she murmured, gazing up at the portrait.

“Yes, she was,” Michael agreed.

Abbey sighed wistfully. “You must miss her very much.”

Michael politely offered his arm, which she reluctantly took. “Indeed, I do,”

he

said simply, then led her to the gold drawing room and seated her on a gold,

chintz-covered chair before moving gracefully to the drink cart.

Through the veil of her lashes, Abbey watched him. He was wearing formal black

evening attire. The whiteness of his pristine collar and neckcloth made his face

look even more bronzed, and his thick black hair seemed to melt into his broad

shoulders. Abbey bit her lower lip and looked away so that he would not catch

her practically drooling over him.

“A sherry?” he asked politely.

“I much prefer a rum, if you have it,” she responded.

With his back to her, Michael arched a brow, but said nothing. He brought her

the drink, then settled in a chair next to her, casually crossing one leg over

the other.

“I wonder where in America a girl would develop a taste for rum,” he said lightly.

“I don’t have a taste for it yet, but I thought I should try it.” She missed his curious look and sipped cautiously. She immediately shut her eyes and wrinkled

her nose.

“Not to your liking?” he asked with a smile of amusement.

She opened her bright eyes. “I like it better than the whiskey,” she said hoarsely, “but not as much as ale.”

Michael chuckled.

“I was only in America for three years.”

“Indeed? I was under the impression you had not been to England in some time,”

Michael said.

“Not since I was a very young girl, that’s true.” Abbey caught a breath in her

throat. He knew she had lived most of her life at sea! He knew every place she

had lived, did he not?

“What of you?” she asked hesitantly. “Have you been to America?”

“Twice. My ships are built in Boston.”

Abbey perked up at that. “I am quite fond of Boston. We always had such a grand

time when we went there. Last year they had a rather large festival on the

waterfront. There were big ships from all over the world, and one was actually

permitted to tour them! They are much larger than those my father owned.”

Michael nodded. “I attended that festival. I had quite a grand time of it myself.”

Abbey’s smile faded. He had been in Boston only last year and did not attempt to

see her? He had been at the same festival. She glanced away as she tried to

collect her thoughts. She was jumping to conclusions again, a practice she

definitely had to stop. He obviously had not known how to contact her. Or perhaps he was involved with Lady Davenport at the time and did not want to

contact her. She put her rum down, a little harder than she would have liked.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

Abbey took a steadying breath and composed herself, determined not to let him

see her disappointment. “I think the rum does not quite agree with me.”

She

smiled nervously.

But Michael could plainly see it was not the rum. Her violet eyes had darkened

with an emotion he would have termed misery.

Jones entered the room just then, smiled broadly at Abbey, and announced that

supper was served.

“Are you ill?” Michael asked, a bit alarmed at the sudden change in her.

Abbey’s thin smile did nothing to assuage his concern. “Not in the least.

Truly,

it was just the rum,” she said, and stood. Michael came to his feet, offering

his arm. Abbey stared at it, then reluctantly put her elegant hand on his forearm. Staring straight ahead, she fell in beside him and marched off to what

a casual observer might have reasonably expected was the hangman’s noose instead

of the dining room.

Once seated Abbey decided she had to divert the subject from their past until

she could talk about it without getting so abysmally emotional. She could not do

it at supper; he seemed too relaxed, and that pleased her enormously.

Except for

her doubts about his presence in Boston, their conversation was amicable. She

asked him about his ship, the La Belle, and he lit up with excitement. It was

the latest design, he explained to her, built to speed over the water. It had made its maiden voyage six months ago and was now ready to be launched for a

voyage to the Mediterranean. That led her to ask about his life at sea, and he

talked with great animation, regaling her with tales of various ports he had visited, many of which Abbey had been in at one time or another. She tried to

ignore the feeling that something was not quite right. Ships went in and out of

port every day; it would have been impossible for him to have known where she

was at any given point in time.

But he had known where her father was.

After supper, they retired to his private library. Abbey peered into the dimly lit room before taking a small step across the threshold. She eyed the fine furnishings and stood shyly next to the servant waiting attentively at the door.

The walls were covered with dark paneling and bookshelves full of leather-bound

volumes. A globe stood near the hearth, where a fire crackled brightly.

Rich

velvet draperies, the color of wine, adorned two large windows. Big, soft leather chairs faced each other in front of the hearth, next to a long leather couch. Two upholstered chairs were in the center of the room, with a low polished table separating them.

Michael removed his coat as he crossed the thick Persian rug and dropped it

carelessly across the wing-backed leather chair stationed behind a massive

mahogany desk. He then strolled casually to the hearth, nodding imperceptibly to

a footman, who immediately brought two snifters of brandy.

When Abbey moved slowly to the fire, Michael surreptitiously perused her feminine figure. In the green dress, her soft, curving figure was well displayed. Her gown was a soft velvet gathered at her natural waist—not a currently fashionable design, but certainly very comely and elegant. She

looked

something like a goddess, and the idea of pulling the gorgeous creature onto his

lap flitted swiftly across his mind’s eye.

“That’s a lovely dress,” he remarked genuinely.

Abbey blushed prettily. “My cousin Victoria made it for me. She’s rather handy

with a needle, fortunately, as I don’t have a single notion of what is fashionable.”

“Indeed? I rather think your gowns are quite becoming.”

“Really?” she asked, clearly pleased. “I owe it all to Tori. Fortunately, she is

much better with her needle than Virginia is with her paste.” She laughed lightly.

“Virginia?” Michael asked.

“My other cousin. She is responsible for the hat.” She nodded.

Michael grinned. “Ah, yes, the hat. And what are you handy with, Abbey?”

he

asked as he brought the snifter to his lips.

Her blush deepened, contradicting her careless shrug. “Oh, nothing, really. I’m

very poor at navigating cloth with a needle, and I certainly have no eye for hats. I helped Aunt Nan manage the farm.” She moved to the chair across from him

and settled in a cloud of green. With the firelight flickering against her skin,

she easily could have been an artist’s creation.

“And what did you do before that?‘’ he asked, more interested in the creamy skin

of her breasts rising softly above her bodice than her answer.

“You know,” she replied nervously. His eyes flicked to hers.

“Do I?” he asked, the lazy grin snaking across his lips again.

“You know you do,” she insisted. He had no idea of what she was talking about

and merely smiled. Abbey stiffened noticeably in her seat and set aside the

brandy, untouched.

“I think we should talk,” she announced suddenly.

“Of what?” He gestured subtly to the footman, who quietly quit the room.

“I think we should establish some rules now, don’t you?” she asked carefully.

Michael’s eyes suddenly hardened, and he slowly crossed one leg over the other.

“I believe the rules have been established,” he said coolly as he swirled the

brandy in his snifter. His intent gaze made her terribly self-conscious, and she

stupidly wondered if he was comparing her to Lady Davenport.

Flustered, she bit her lower lip and looked intently at her lap. “After hearing

your preferred arrangement—

“It is not my preferred arrangement, it is the arrangement—”

“After hearing the arrangement, I thought we should mutually agree upon a few

simple ideals. For example, you shall live in Brighton, and I shall live here, is that not correct?”

“I shall live where I see fit, Abbey. You shall live here.”

“You implied you would leave me to Blessing Park. I think that, given the unfortunate circumstances in which we find ourselves, I prefer you to remain in

Brighton unless there is some compelling need for you to be here.”

Michael actually looked surprised for a moment, but his expression quickly gave

way to bland indifference. “I did suggest I would spend my time in Brighton. But

I may change my mind at any given moment, and it is best you understand that I

will do as I please.”

Abbey released a small, weary sigh. He was suddenly so cold and distant, her

courage was beginning to crumble. “I see,” she muttered, and stood abruptly. She

crossed to a library table and absently fingered the books that lay there as she

tried to muster her resolve.

“Then let me broach the subject of my allowance,” she finally continued. “I have

no need of money. You may have it.” She thought he would appreciate her straightforward manner with such a sensitive topic. If his sarcastic snort was

any indication, that was hardly the case. His resentment of her had seemed to

vanish at supper, but it had grown by leaps and bounds in the short time they

had been in his private library. It was obvious Lord Rude would make an appearance tonight after all.

“I know by law it belongs to you—rest assured, that fact was made perfectly

clear before I ever left America—and I am telling you I relinquish it freely,”

she clarified. She waited for him to respond, but the room was filled with only

the sound of a ticking clock. At the very least he could thank her for being so

reasonable about the whole thing! Why did he not say anything? His silence made

her even more nervous, and she whirled around, leaned against the table, and

studied him for a long moment, as he did her. He did not seem the least bit

appreciative of what she was trying to do; instead he looked angry. She wondered

what he could be thinking as his gaze swept her.

“If I may be perfectly frank, Michael—”

“Please,” he said coolly.

She sighed with great exasperation. “If I may be perfectly frank, I think you should know that I understand your, uh, circumstance, and I do not mind in the

least. In fact, I think it rather explains a lot, and I have no animosity toward the situation whatsoever.”